she’d had a lust crush on him a mile wide.
Claudia would fall about laughing. Probably Sadie would, as well. Not at her, but at the irony of the situation—Grace Wellington, founding member of the Nothing But Contempt For Men Club, had a soft spot for the show’s biggest horn-dog.
It was too, too ironic. And faintly embarrassing, really. She should know better, she really should. The man was a known womanizer, he was paid to play make-believe and he lived a frivolous, pointless life. In short, he represented about a million of the things she liked least in men. There really wasn’t anything admirable about him at all, in fact, apart from his superb body and gorgeous face. Her crush was absolutely a manifestation of lust. But, somehow, some way, no matter how many times she chastised herself for her bad taste in virtual lovers, he kept on sliding into her fantasy bed and taking her in his arms. Which was why she’d never confided in her friends. And, after all, it wasn’t as though she knew everything about Sadie and Claudia’s sex lives, right? It was nobody’s business but her own. It was utterly harmless, a private indulgence that affected no one save herself.
It helped that she’d never met the man. Sure, she’d passed him in the corridors when she’d been across town at the studios for meetings, but she’d never exchanged actual words with him. There was an unspoken divide between the writing team and the cast and crew—it wasn’t just about being in different locations, it had been the same on every show Grace had worked on—so it wasn’t particularly notable that they’d never been introduced. But she didn’t need to meet him to know what he was like—she knew his type.
Yep, Sadie and Claudia would definitely lose a lung laughing if they knew.
Sliding between the sheets, Grace set the alarm and switched the light off. Her body was humming with satisfaction. As usual, virtual Mac had been the perfect lover: flawless technique, intuitive, voracious. Best of all, he came with absolutely no strings attached and she didn’t have to wonder when he’d call again or listen to his lame-ass excuses for why he couldn’t stay the night.
And he would never, ever cheat on her.
The perfect man, indeed.
Smiling smugly, she fell asleep.
MAC HARRISON GRUNTED with disgust as he threw the script he’d been reading across the room.
Drivel, absolute drivel. How anyone expected him to say those lines of dialogue with any sincerity was beyond him. Reaching for his beer bottle, he realized it was empty. He was about to push himself off the couch to grab another brewski from the fridge when he registered that there were another three empty bottles lined up on his coffee table. Four beers. And he was alone. And it was midnight on a Sunday evening. Not quite time to check into the Betty Ford center, but still… Perhaps it was time to switch to soda water.
He sank back onto the couch and ran a hand through his hair. He felt like crap. He’d been sleeping way too much lately and spending too much time on his own—probably because his libido was nonexistent. Depression tended to do that to a guy. His gym routine was about the only thing keeping him sane at the moment.
He stared at the discarded script where it lay crumpled on the ground a few feet away. He had five scenes he needed to memorize for tomorrow’s shoot, but he couldn’t make himself pick it up again.
Jesus, he needed another beer. Which was a pretty good reason not to have one. Mac had seen his fair share of actors succumb to drug and alcohol addictions over the years. He didn’t plan on becoming one of them. But he also knew he had to do something because he couldn’t continue living his life the way he was.
It had been a mistake coming back to Ocean Boulevard. The moment he’d gotten over his relief at having a regular paycheck again he’d known it. He’d been greeted like a returning king by the producers when he walked back on set twelve months ago and the show’s loyal fan base had gone wild. The soap magazines had splashed him across covers and he’d smiled, answered all their questions and basically acted his butt off to look as though he was exactly where he wanted to be.
But he so wasn’t.
He’d come to Hollywood from Seattle as a determined eighteen-year-old and hadn’t been able to believe his luck when he’d scored a role on a new soap. He’d only intended to stay with the show a year, two max. But each year his paycheck got fatter as the show’s ratings rose and his character became more and more popular. At the same time, the older actors on the show were constantly telling him how good he had it, how lean it was Out There, how he’d never have it better. By the time he’d been with the show for eight years, he’d crossed the line from complacency to boredom and frustration. Finally, he made the leap.
And failed spectacularly.
Hollywood had swallowed him in one easy gulp, with barely a ripple to mark his passing. He’d been on the soap for too long, his agent had told him, he was tainted by the association.
On a good day, he didn’t hate Boulevard. It had bought his house, his car, fed him, clothed him, got him laid for many of the past fifteen years. It was a fun, entertaining, sometimes even moving show. It just didn’t feed his soul. And how pretentious was that, anyway, wanting a career that made you proud, made you want to jump out of bed in the morning? Most people settled for three square meals and a roof over their heads, smiles on their kids’ faces and backyard barbecues. He was a spoiled bastard. He knew it, but it didn’t stop him from feeling as though a giant hand was slowly grinding him into the ground.
The reality was, he should have had the courage to walk away altogether, to pursue something completely outside of the industry. Instead, he’d succumbed to the lure of money and security. And it was slowly killing him.
“Boo-goddamn-hoo,” he sneered at himself, launching himself to his feet.
The only thing worse than a worn-out has-been was a self- pitying worn-out has-been. Prowling around the house, he picked up books and put them down again, shuffled through his CD collection looking for something—anything—he could bear to listen to, and generally behaved like a lost soul.
Inevitably, he wound up in his study, staring at the calendar on his wall. Tomorrow’s date was circled in red, and he shook his head as he acknowledged his own desperation. Tomorrow he found out if the Boulevard’s new producer was willing to continue what her predecessor had started and hand over a block of the show for him to direct.
Originally, he’d floated the idea of directing some blocks of the show to his agent half as a joke—he’d figured the producers would say no, or that if they said yes it would be an entertaining diversion from the usual. To his surprise, they’d given him the nod. Twice now he’d been allowed to step behind the camera and direct the show. It had been challenging work both times, but it had also been the most alive he’d felt in a long time.
Then there had been a regime change, a fairly regular occurrence in television. Heads had rolled and new heads had taken their places. He’d been waiting for nearly two months since then to find out if the new producer, Claudia Dostis, was willing to continue what her predecessor had started. There was a high chance she wouldn’t—many producers would have said no simply because he’d been a pet project of the guy whose seat they were now warming. But tomorrow was the day of truth, the day she was handing out the newdirectors’ roster.
And he wanted his name to be on it, bad. He needed his name to be on it, if he was being honest with himself.
There had to be something more out there. Didn’t there?
IT
